follow the running stitch
by matchaball
Summary: A study of Marinette, told through the clothes given over the years by those who know her, those who love her, and those who seek to understand her.
1. Tom, Nino, Alix, Rose, Tikki, Sabine

Delighted shrieks decorate the small living room, accompanied by one breathless and excited five year old. Tiny feet patter against the ground as they make a beeline for the window, and decisive hands shove the curtains aside to reveal Paris winking back in silvery white sparkles.

She presses her face right up against the clear glass, cheeks smushed in a smile against the sting of the cold, her blue eyes enormous in her face as she watches the world outside become as deliciously powdered as Papa's madeleines.

Seeing is not nearly enough. All winter long, there have only been bitter rains and grimy slush. Now, fat, lazy snowflakes drift down in elegant twirls, just begging to be caught on eyelashes and waiting tongues.

Marinette doesn't waste another moment. Pink socked feet clamber into equally pink boots, and her arms thrust carelessly into her jacket before a large hand and a chuckle stops her.

"Hold on now, you're missing something," Tom grins at her. He turns the jacket right side out and watches in amusement as Marinette impatiently dances on the spot as she properly zips up, her puffed out cheeks already flushing in anticipation.

"Ready?" she implores, gazing up at him with devastating power in her wide, pleading eyes.

Usually, Tom buckles. Instantly. Instead, he draws up a pair of bright red mittens attached together by a long string of sturdy yarn, the kind of mittens that defy becoming lost, and watches as her expression grows soft and round with captivated wonder.

"Thanks, Papa," Marinette squeals, throwing her tiny arms around as much as she can reach. Hugging her pa is like hugging a mountain: an impossibility that she effortlessly conquers with fierce enthusiasm and will.

The mittens, impossibly tiny in his huge hands, slip onto hers in a perfect fit.

With no further delay, she zips out of the apartment and darts out of the bakery, gasping as the cold sharpens against her face, and smiling as snowflakes drift down to examine the speckles already peppered across her nose and cheeks. Hands reach to the sky, to the ground, to everything that she can touch and explore.

The bakery door swings open somewhere far behind her, the bell singing of Tom's arrival before his steps crunch down on the packed snow.

She turns and waves at him, one mitten already freed from a hand and swinging merrily from its connecting string like a bright red pendulum. Snow muffles the world around them, simplifying time into the slow pulse of red.

"Wait up for your ol' Pa," Tom laughs before gently catching the swinging mitten in the calloused palm of his hand.

Delighted, Marinette tugs him along the red heartline strung between them, fearlessly leading him forward into the unknown.

.

.

.

There is only one person who knows Marinette can sing, and that is Nino.

"I can't sing," Marinette protests stubbornly, twin spots of flustered red high on her cheeks that say otherwise. "I don't sing."

Instead of pointing out the glaring difference between _can't_ and _don't_ , Nino just tilts his head up to the sky, casually nudges the brim of his cap, and hums, "So if you're goin' my way- that's the roooad you wanna seek!"

"I'm not-" Marinette huffs, crossing her arms. Her fingers tap to the beat. "Damn Nino, _you're_ a good singer."

"Calcutta to Rome; or home, sweet home, in _Paris_ , magnifique, you _all!_ " he hums in response, glasses flashing a challenge as he finally grins down on her.

"Nino…"

"I only got myself, and this big oooool' world." His teeth flash white against the dark of his skin, baring his second challenge. "But I sip that cup of life, with my fingers cuuurled!" His hand juts out, pinky pompously extended in an exaggerated swagger, waiting.

Third challenge thrown; and hook, line, _sinker_.

Marinette stomps over, hooks her pinky with his, and yanks his hand down so she can sing straight to his face, "I don't worry what road to take, I don't have to _think_ of _that_ ; whatever I _take_ is the road I _make_ , it's the road of life make _**no**_ mistake!" Her enunciation snarls back in Nino's face, but her eyes spark to the beat and her warm, smooth voice rises and falls in powerful waves, edged with the effervescent foam of her clear vibrato.

The smile that splits Nino's face is less triumphant and more excitement. His pinky slides free of hers and he tosses his hands out in front of him, flicking his fingers to the beat as he effortlessly begins beatboxing a fluid rhythm for her to crest upon.

If Marinette is startled, she doesn't show it. She tosses her head back, grins at his improvisation, and continues singing, "For _me_ , yeah! Abraham De Lacy, Guiseppe Casey, Thomas O'Malley- O'Malley, the _alley cat!_ "

She dissolves into bubbles of laughter as Nino beatboxes a few moments longer, applauding as he finishes with a flourish.

Before she can comment on his impressive skills, he beats her to the punch. "You _so_ can sing."

Marinette only crosses her arms, lifts an eyebrow up, and mulishly remains silent. Nino knows she's got stubbornness down to an art, and so resorts to baser tactics.

"Could you help me with some of my mixes?" he asks a little hesitantly. There's not much that Nino will truly devote himself to going after, but when he sees a golden opportunity- or a golden voice- he's not about to let it slide right by.

Luckily, it's Marinette. Marinette, who understands the impulse of creativity, who so often takes charge, but who also knows that this is his turf he's inviting her to step up to and share in.

She softens in the face of his vulnerability and nods, "Alright." Nino exhales, relieved. "Is this for anything in particular?"

He tells her. He might be over his crush on her, but there's no denying that her wide, inquisitive eyes in that shade of striking ocean blue can still yank his feet from under him in a powerful undertow. Particulars aren't needed; at the mention of, "I'm trying to get an apprenticeship at this recording studio-" Marinette rises to the occasion like a tidal wave, determined to help him however she can.

They spend sporadic weekends together, sometimes even staying at school during lunch to work out a new tune or a experiment with a new rhythm. They improvise well together, and the work is always more fun than arduous. Marinette's voice weaves playfully through his beatboxing, ebbing and flowing enough to stand out one moment and fade to let him shine the next.

Nino's sure he's never mixed a better album of songs. Collaborating with Marinette is natural, easy, and they end up high fiving with shared grins at the end of a satisfying recording session.

The only thing she asks of him is to keep her singing something between them. In some ways, Nino doesn't understand this; he knows she has a talent, one that can so easily be shared and celebrated. But in other ways, he gets that despite her openness and expressiveness, Marinette can be a very private person. He's chill with it either way, and zips his lips shut.

Of course, when he gets green-lit for the apprenticeship, he goes a step further to thank Marinette for her assistance.

"Nino…" Marinette gapes as she lifts a pair of headphones from the box, her lips twitching- in amusement or ire, he can't really tell. "I can't believe you."

"Thomas O'Malley," he sings, laughing as Marinette turns to swat him, "O'Malley, the _alley cat!_ "

The headphones are ostentatious already with embedded lights encircling the earpads, but what really takes the cake are the set of _cat ears_ built along the headband: thick, sturdy, and studded with speakers that _light up_ -

"Blue," Marinette laughs incredulously. "You got me light up blue cat headphones."

Nino only grins, attaches the chord of the headphones to his phone, switches a flick, and watches her expression brighten like the sun breaking open across the dark of a new day as his beatboxing fills the air, emanating from the cat ear speakers.

Despite her laughter, Marinette slings the headphones up on her head, lifts her chin high, and sings, "I don't worry what road to take, I don't have to _think_ of that! Whatever I take is the road _I_ make: it's the road of life, make _no~o_ mistake-"

"-for me, _yeah!_ " they yowl together at the end, snorting in laughter before high fiving.

The cheshire grin that spreads across her face and dimples her cheeks, Nino notes, matches her new headphones perfectly.

.

.

.

When Alix hands Marinette a set of black, sturdy kneepads, Marinette takes them with no small amount of confusion.

"For the next time," Alix explains without preamble, a wicked grin unfurling across her face, "you dive bomb your way on top of Adri-"

" _Aaaarrghh_ Alix!" Marinette shrieks as she leaps to shush her friend.

Cackling in glee, Alix high fives Alya while effortlessly sidestepping Marinette's lunge- just in time for the aforementioned boy to scoop an armful of one flailing, sputtering girl.

The kneepads clatter to the ground uselessly, but Alix supposes Marinette won't really need them if Adrien is always there to catch her.

"Ditching the gloves was a good idea," Alya nudges Alix before picking the kneepads back up and slinging them together for Marinette to collect later.

"Yeah," Alix snorts, unimpressed with the painful awareness and humming tension thrumming between a brilliantly red Marinette and obliviously concerned Adrien. "Marinette has a thing for his chest, doesn't she?"

.

.

.

Over the years, Rose has been told she gives rather unusual gifts. Great gifts- but definitely unconventional. Her only response to that observation is to hum lightheartedly, smile sweetly, and hand the gift in question over to the expectant- if wary- recipient.

Her sentiments are always wholehearted and genuine, and more often than not on the side of sincere rather than vindictive or snarky (though- Juleka could potentially offer the argument of subtle deviousness, if anyone can ever pry that sort of information from her).

Which is why, come Marinette's seventeenth birthday, Rose's gift is received with appreciation, seasoned well with a heavy blush and furtive glance at their other friends joking and talking around them.

"Rose, this is beautiful," Marinette draws her attention with a low murmur. "I don't- I mean, how did- is the size-?"

Her stuttering is a surprise to Rose, who knows Marinette to be confident, if not charged with the way she articulates herself.

Then again, gifting Marinette with a lacy, strappy, black bralette in the middle of all their collège friends might have made her understandably uncomfortable. All at once, Rose hurries to soothe her concerns.

"Alya helped me with size," Rose tells her blithely, drawing the attention of said girl to sling an arm around Marinette, laughing and rubbing cheeks with her. "Juleka helped me with the style-" Juleka stands by Rose's side like a pale shadow, but a pleased smirk edges on her face as Rose slips an arm around her waist, "- and Adrien helped me with the brand!"

A horrendous squawk emits from Marinette's mouth as she slaps the lid of the gift shut over the bralette, her face bright enough to single-handedly light the room up in glowing red. The noise attracts the attention of everyone else in the room, and Rose rushes to divert the focus once more.

"Only the girls know," she tells Marinette kindly, and it's like popping a bursting balloon. Air wheezes out of Marinette in ungraceful gasps, and Alya slaps her back in concern.

After coughing to clear her throat, Marinette sends Rose a weak smile. "Thank you, it really is a beautiful gift."

"I like to think it's nice to have a surprise hidden beneath every now and then!" Rose chirps back brightly. When Juleka nudges her side, she backtracks and almost wilts at how she potentially made things awkward again; but instead of embarrassment contorting Marinette's features, she looks a touch speculative, as if chewing on a new thought and deciding whether or not she liked the flavour.

Alya, on the other hand, looks positively gleeful.

The next get-together, a picnic at the park near their old collège, sees Marinette sporting a casual black top with a neckline low enough to show the black straps of her bralette slinging over the top of her breasts, edging onto her upper chest. It's subtle, sexy, and classy all rolled into one look, and Rose makes it a point of delightedly saying so to her. Marinette only laughs and hugs her tight, thanking her again for the gift.

"It's really comfortable," Marinette smiles, her fingers tracing the satin straps absentmindedly.

"Well," Rose laughs, pleased as she catches sight of an extremely flustered Adrien and a smug Nino from behind Marinette. "I'm glad, at least, that _you_ find it to be so."

.

.

.

Ladybug lands and ducks under the awning on her balcony before releasing her transformation, automatically cupping her hands together to catch Tikki as she whirls out of the earrings in complete exhaustion.

Despite the aches in her muscles and the bruises stiffening her limbs, Marinette holds Tikki protectively, carefully, as she eases them both through the trapdoor and onto the soft landing pad of her bed.

"Oh Marinette, I'm supposed to look after you," Tikki sighs as she weakly flutters up to inspect the purpling whorls stained across Marinette's skin.

"But then who'll look after you?" Marinette answers with a frown, pulling up a container of Tikki's favourite cookies. As the kwami dives for the food, Marinette continues, "Are you ok? That akuma landed a lot more hits than usual."

The akuma had whooped her ass for the better part of the afternoon, and though the suit had absorbed most of the impact, the suit was also _Tikki_. Even the Miraculous cleansing at the end could only minimize so much of the damage to the both of them right away since most of the magic went towards fixing everything else. Only time and repowered magic could speed the recovery of any lingering injuries.

"I'm fine, Marinette," Tikki assures her with a brighter chirp, munching on her cookie. Her sore body trembles slightly, though she is careful to hide that from her chosen.

When Marinette commits to carrying all of Paris on her strong, slim shoulders, she _means_ it, right down to every last soul that looks up to her and Chat Noir.

The little god looks at Marinette with fondness and wonder, and muses when the hearts of humans had become so very colossal.

As Marinette brushes her bangs aside and winces at the large bruise on her forehead before giggling that hey, they match now even without the suit on, Tikki amends her thought. Not every chosen wears the spots well, but Marinette's known how it feels to fall, to bruise, and to get back up long before Tikki came. The art of perseverance is one Marinette is intimately familiar with.

Ladybug's suit, Tikki knows, is simply the same as the one Marinette has always worn.

.

.

.

When Marinette makes it a habit of coming home with grubby hands cupped around some treasure or other that she's picked up, and with her clothes stained and repurposed into makeshift containers, Sabine doesn't scold.

She wipes Marinette's face clean, finds a box for her wonders, and takes the hint.

The next day sees Sabine plucking her bag of fabric scraps open on the kitchen table next to a large stack of Marinette's clothes. The precocious child rises on tip toes before clambering up on a stool to gleefully examine the innumerable patterns and colours sprawled over the tabletop, a veritable treasure trove.

Sabine thinks that in another life, Marinette might have been a magpie. Except it's not just shiny objects the young child is drawn to, but anything that arrests her attention long enough to decide that it's worth holding onto.

Marinette may be flighty, in the way small children often are, but she is also decisive in what she likes. Experience teaches Sabine this well, from the way Marinette chatters brightly about all the five-leaf clovers she just _had_ to find, and the shiny bottle caps that would gleam the prettiest silver when the stickers peel off.

That is how Sabine knows Marinette to be truly like Tom: they are both inspired best through touch.

Each scrap of fabric passes through small, curious fingers, and as Sabine draws her own square towards her waiting sewing needle and a pair of Marinette's overalls, she watches her child sift through the vast selection before her with growing purpose.

As Sabine patiently sews the square onto the soft denim, Marinette pushes a delicate pink square dotted with blue stars on top of a folded daisy yellow shirt. With the singularly intense concentration of a child devoted to the task at hand, Marinette makes her selection and places them on top of the waiting pile of clothes.

Sabine takes the hint, and matches the squares accordingly as she sews on pocket after pocket.

They see great use, and Marinette wears the patchwork on her clothes with glee, filling the pockets up often enough that they frequently fray and give out. After some hesitation, Sabine relents to Marinette's enthusiastic pleas to help. Patience guides Sabine into teaching Marinette how to thread a needle and knot the ends, how to darn and repair the holes, how to sew a strong running stitch and backstitch to anchor off.

Marinette takes to sewing like a duck to water. Despite her characteristic clumsiness, she is nothing but deft and fluid with the colours and textures sliding through her hands.

Some parents look at their children's homework to see the growth in their writing; Sabine looks no further than the stitches anchoring the pockets in all of Marinette's clothes.

"I like being able to do this myself," Marinette tells her one day years later, with the sort of independence young teenagers covet. A smile flashes across her face. "I can always trust my stitches. Yours too, Maman. They'll never give out."

There is a sort of nostalgia that Sabine takes from her daughter's words, to hear her faith in her mother's sewing despite the fact that Sabine hasn't sewn her clothes in years.

Somewhere along the way, Marinette started constructing inner pockets, hidden pockets, reinforcing her stitches with double threaded upholstery nylon.

Sabine mourns the younger days, the carefree days. Wonders at the strength Marinette needs to keep her secrets.

Sometimes, Marinette tells her. Of mint leaves she tucks away, of impossibly soft white down feathers she collects, of tiny bells fallen from cat collars that she keeps. In true fashion, she often forgets or loses said objects throughout the day; but the idea, the inspiration, stays. These are small secrets she shares; safe secrets.

It is enough for Sabine to wonder what her daughter is hiding- or protecting- from her.

What Marinette doesn't tell her, Sabine often finds hints when she does laundry. Dirt used to dye all the threads of the exuberant pockets from Marinette's childhood. Ink splotches takes their place when inspiration strikes and designs start flowing. Cookie crumbles appear at an alarming rate, wedged between stitches with perplexing persistence.

They never seem to disappear, the cookie crumbles. Not an odd thing, for a baker's daughter, though it seems strange that they appear most in the inner pockets sewn with heavy duty industrial strength thread.

A few years down the road, hints of cheese start cropping up alongside the cookies. From the way it stains the inner cloth, Sabine guesses it to be brie, or camembert.

Sabine lingers, but doesn't pry. She trusts Marinette will tell her when she's ready.

The secrets that Marinette keeps smudge across the threads, staining the pockets and wearing the fabric thin; but even after all this time, the stitches Sabine taught her long ago hold strong, steady, and true.

* * *

 **AN:** This story is cross posted on my AO3 and tumblr account (my username is matchaball for both!) with links to particular clothes/accessories. This site is incredibly awful with links so I'm not even going to try to put them here.

School's started up again for me, so this fic is a rather self-indulgent breather since it's really a collection of drabbles with little care to continuity. They're all unrelated to each other, and Marinette's age sort of ranges depending on the person, but I try to make it clear how old she is if she's an age other than her 15-year-old self.

If you have a favourite, I'd love to know who you liked :) I'd love to know too if you think any of my characterization is off! This is all supposed to be a patchwork character study of Marinette but the irony is I'm basically doing character studies of literally everyone else before actually getting to her in the process.

The unfortunate thing is that I don't have the entire story written (though it is all planned!), so updates won't be as often or as consistent as my last fic. I'm also in the process of planning/writing a flowershop/tattoo artist au that I'm super super super excited to share hopefully in the near future as well! I'm going to try to update this once a week, but it may vary depending on how heavy my schoolwork gets. Happy reading!


	2. Chloé, Max, Nathanaël, Gabriel, Chat

"Start walking."

The command is punctuated by the sharp click of stilettos dropped contemptuously on the desk in front of Marinette.

They are dangerously gorgeous, dressed in sleek, buttery black leather, and licked with iconic red at the soles. The spiked heel soars proudly to the towering height of 130mm, topped with a subtle scallop at the rim. It's designer, it's luxurious, it's painful.

It's trademark Laboutin; but more importantly, it's signature Chloé Bourgeois.

When Marinette glares up at Chloé, no doubt a fiery retort at the tip of her tongue ready to be unleashed, Chloé stops her with a cold smirk. A perfectly manicured hand braces against the desk as Chloé leans in closer, close enough to brandish her taunt like a burning brand.

"Afraid you can't handle walking a mile in _my_ shoes, Marinette Dupain-Cheng?"

Each syllable of Marinette's name pops from Chloé's lips with the sort of satisfaction from someone who knows she's _won_.

This sort of retribution is more direct and personal than Chloé's usual response of dishing her problems to her father to take care of; but Marinette, who gets under Chloé's skin like no one else, who doesn't balk in the face of Chloé's willful demands nor her father's influential power, is a stunning exception.

No, what is more effective with Marinette is giving her a taste of her own medicine.

And it tastes ever so sweet, as Marinette levels a scowl bordering on venomous before yanking the stilettos towards herself and swapping them with her simple pink ballet flats. In pointed emphasis, she thrusts herself back from the desk and stands up straight, towering tall enough to stand above most everyone save Kim and Ivan.

The shoes fit her like a glove, elongating her toned legs and highlighting the sculpted definition of her muscled calves. She takes a wobbly step, then two, then three in steadier succession. Every person in their class watches her with alert attention never before achieved for the early hour before Mme. Bustier comes in to start the day. Chloé tracks her predatorily, waiting for the inevitable slip-up, the slippery crash to the ground, the ruins of defeat.

"I won't wear them for just a mile." The smile Marinette throws at her is more a baring of teeth. "I'll wear them around all _week_."

The bite back is something Chloé expects. It doesn't draw pain, but only an ironic sort of satisfaction.

Beauty, power, and prestige: _those_ are pain. Chloé doesn't even notice it anymore. She haughtily wears it all like armour. Even better, she has learned to weaponize it.

As if someone like Marinette could understand the cost of appearance.

"We'll see about that," Chloé says before sailing back to her own seat. "Oh, and if you break those, you'll have to buy me a new pair."

"I won't break them," comes the confident retort before a yelp pierces the air. Marinette's grasp on her center of balance has always been a finicky thing. Years of class together makes this intimate knowledge for Chloé, which is why she has no problem laughing mockingly as the added height does nothing but throw Marinette completely off kilter. Marinette reels back ungracefully into her seat, her killer heels slipping on the wood floor.

The growl that tears through the room only makes Chloé smirk wider.

"I won't break them," Marinette repeats, electricity snapping through piercing blue eyes. Then, more directly, "I won't break."

"We'll see about that," Chloé purrs.

Class has never been more entertaining. Watching Marinette wobble up to the front to present her project; tracking her movements as she teeters her way to the bathroom and navigates the stairs during break; laughing knowingly- pointedly- as she grips walls and people more and more as the day wears on are all so sweetly _satisfying._

The hiss that steams out of Marinette as she sits down and rolls her feet forward so her weight rests on the balls of her feet instead of her abused heels doesn't pass by Chloé's notice. Chloé laughs again and again before flicking her ponytail in a spray of molten gold: her own victory flag.

Still, Marinette wears them doggedly throughout the day. She even walks home in them. The following days bear witness to the same stubborn repetition. Chloé, and everyone else, even witnesses Marinette _sprint_ in them during an akuma attack.

Chloé refuses to be impressed by this.

She refuses to be impressed still when she catches sight of Marinette bandaging the blisters that have bubbled up before standing and walking on again, tenaciously cutting her way through pain that Chloé knows too well.

Part of Chloé wonders how much of Marinette's stubborn strength comes from a refusal to show weakness in front of her, and how much is because Marinette has acclimatized to the challenge so quickly. As much as Chloé loathes to admit it, there is a small seed of respect that burrows into her mind as Marinette soldiers through the day on red soles of pain.

Though, she doesn't think highly of Marinette's continuous and then increased acceptance of help from others as the week draws to a close, as the blisters on her feet pop and bleed and bite her every step.

"Cheater," Chloé singsongs as she flaunts past Mylène and Rose supporting Marinette through the ordeal of climbing the stairs.

After all, she learned how to manage on her own, strutting on ahead and above everyone else who could trip her up. Let them dislike her; she couldn't care any less than if she bothered trying. Independence gives its own kind of invincibility to Chloé.

"There's no shame in accepting help from someone else," Marinette calls out to her.

"Your mistake," Chloé scoffs.

"My _choice_."

Marinette's words ring more knowingly, more powerfully than any telltale click of her heels. When Chloé walks away, she has to tell herself that it is not a retreat.

At the end of the week, the stilettos remain permanently in Marinette's possession, though that is not due to any victory on her part. In fact, neither of them really win. Sometime during the week, winning stops being the point: a shift orchestrated not by Chloé, but decidedly by all the magnetic influence that Marinette unconsciously wields.

Despite the fact that Chloé was the one to set the rigged playing field, Marinette never had to do anything more than to step up and stand tall for fortune to favour her.

But watching Marinette grit her teeth and staunchly walk on throughout the week had been a little like watching herself at times, if Chloé is being honest. They have both bled pain for the sake of appearance.

It's something, Chloé slowly realizes, that, despite their differences, they may have always seen eye to eye on.

.

.

.

"Hey Max!"

The shout startles him from his conversation with Kim. When he looks up, Marinette is bounding towards him with her sketchbook clutched in her hands and a gleam in her eyes.

"Is there something you need, Marinette?" Max answers, properly puzzled as she bounces to a stop in front of him.

"Your suspenders!" she chirps brightly.

His fingers automatically fly to his striped suspenders in defense, though he's not sure what he's defending against. Possibly the strip of his clothing.

"Sorry, I meant, do you have any old suspenders that I may possibly have? I've been designing this outfit for a while and I couldn't figure out what I needed to make it work. Then I was looking around and-" Her sketchbook smacks against her hand in emphasis, "-suspenders! They're exactly what I need!"

Startled, Max does no more than gape at her for several seconds. Prior to this moment, the most personally he'd ever interacted with Marinette had been during the Ultimate Mecha Strike III competition- and he still remembers how _that_ all turned out.

"Well, yes, I believe I could find an old pair or a spare," he says slowly. He adjusts his glasses in thought, not missing the way Marinette reacts to his hesitance.

"If that's alright?" she tacks on almost as an afterthought, hurrying to suffuse her words with careful concern.

It's not that Marinette is insincere, or manipulative with her empathy. Max just knows with the certainty of statistical proof how driven she can be: a fault that can blind her to the wellbeing of others, when she's set and locked on her goal.

Max wishes he hadn't experienced that particular side of her firsthand. Even if he doesn't remember his time as Gamer, he's still not proud that he had succumbed to Hawkmoth at all. He bears Marinette no ill will over the matter; he thinks he might even thank her for it, in a roundabout way. His own competitive nature is tempered better by the experience.

Still, there is always a flag of caution that rises up in his mind whenever Marinette comes up.

What makes his own relationship with Kim so easy is that Kim is always a steady, reliable constant. Marinette is, more often than not, an unknown variable. Not a volatile one, like Chloé, but uncertain enough to unsettle him.

Regardless, Max gives her a smile as he says, "It's no problem. I'll look for it when I go home tonight."

"Thanks Max, I really appreciate it." Marinette smiles at him again before Alya snags her around the arm and pulls her into the classroom.

Her request strikes him as rather odd. She could've easily bought herself a new pair, or asked him where he got his suspenders so she could go to the store herself... but she didn't. He wonders if she didn't go charging ahead with the first strike of inspiration that seized her mind; and then concludes, that is most definitely what she did. Not the most efficient solution, but certainly the most direct.

It doesn't take Max long later that night to unearth a pair of plain, black suspenders with silver buckles. They're serviceable, but not extraordinary.

The look of delight that brightens Marinette's entire demeanour when he gives it to her the next day suggests otherwise. The way her fingers run over the broad elastic makes him wonder if he missed something in his appraisal of its value; but the consideration in her gaze lets him know she is simply calculating a different kind of equation than he is familiar with.

"This is perfect! You're ok with giving this to me?" Marinette flicks blue eyes over to him.

"It's all yours," Max says. "May I ask what you're making?"

"It's a surprise," she says apologetically. "But you'll be the first to know, when I'm done!"

Realistically, Max knows the chances of that are rather unlikely; but the unerring confidence in her voice has him believing that she could be promising him a nuclear missile and he wouldn't even question it.

A week later, he thinks maybe he shouldn't underestimate her so much as a cry of "Hey Max!" pulls him out of a conversation with Kim and Alix again. When he turns around, he isn't confronted with Marinette's sketchbook this time, but with the fruits of her labour instead.

Her outfit is simple. Even if it had been any more complicated, Max wouldn't have been able to identify anything more than the most basic forms. Statistics are where he excels, not fashion, but even he knows enough that the pale pink blouse tucked into a high waisted, black skirt is a cute combination.

As people draw towards them- towards Marinette- Max catches terms like "Peter Pan collar", and "box pleats"; but what really arrests his attention are the suspenders. Clipped snugly to her skirt and lying stark against her pink blouse, the black elastic is embroidered with vines and blood red poppies, blooming. The embroidery bleeds into more subtle stitching on the skirt that he only notices when Marinette turns and the pleats flare out.

"Only you could make suspenders look good," Alix laughs appreciatively.

"Hey now-" Kim starts, a frown furrowing his brow as he glances over to Max. Before Kim can get any further, Marinette beats him to the punch.

"It was Max who gave me the suspenders actually. I only altered them a little, but he has great taste to begin with." Marinette levels an encouraging grin in Max's direction, and he's thrown a little off balance by the acknowledgement.

After a moment, he accepts her offering with good grace, drawing satisfaction that his contribution totaled to a significant percentage in her success.

Numbers are cold and safe, absolute in their certainty. People are much more unpredictable and incalculable, despite his best efforts.

He has a funny feeling though, that Marinette is used to beating the odds.

.

.

.

A wing of black flies upwards, catching the light so a shimmer of cool blue crests along its curve before it settles back down.

A few moments later, it happens again. Upon a gust a wind, the wing rises up to fan out once more. For an infinite second, it hangs in breathless suspension before falling down in graceful disarray-

"Nathanaël!" Mme. Bustier's stern voice appears as a jerky slash on the page interrupting the curve of a pair of graceful, expressive hands- or are they feathers? "I hope you're paying attention, as this material will be on the next test."

A hasty and apologetic mumble falls through Nathanaël's lips in response but it's enough to satisfy their teacher. He silently thanks the world at large that she didn't demand to see his notes… or, the lack of.

Sprawled across his poorly hidden sketchbook are eye-catching figures that swoop and soar across the page, as eloquent and articulate as any word that could hope to define them. Arms flare out, often transitioning to feathered wings, or accompanied by a flaring round cape split in two.

Nathanaël sees Marinette walk and run everyday; but in his sketchbook, she _flies_.

It's not unlike the fragile flutter of wings that tickles his stomach every time he looks at her. Except these sketches have nothing to do with those butterflies (ok; maybe a little- or, a lot) and everything with the way she blows her bangs away from her eyes.

Her hair's gotten a little long, he notices, long enough for her to spend more time sweeping the raven's wing away from her eyes, and for her to entertain herself by angling her exhales to catch the feathery strands.

In contrast, Nathanaël tilts his head forward so his own curtain of red hides him from the irresistible sight of Marinette. He feels a little safer, a little more secure behind his red shield.

He wonders how Marinette does it: be as open and strong and kind as she is, without fear of attention or judgement. He finds it- he finds _her_ \- inspiring, and the proof is sprawled all across the pages of his sketchbook.

With Mme. Bustier's attention successfully diverted from him once more, Nathanaël studies his latest batch of drawings. No longer the swooning damsel in distress, Marinette is her own commanding champion. It seems more fitting, even if there is no room on the page for him anymore. After some consideration, he decides that the plain black ink hardly does her vivacity justice.

As he rummages in his pencil case for his markers, colours run through his mind: the clear blue of her eyes, the soft pink of her pants, the deep indigo shine of her hair. As he decides on the apple red of her cheeks to use, his fingers catch upon several small butterfly clips mixed in with his markers and pencils and pens.

There was a time when Nathanaël would pin his hair back before he'd start drawing. Even if he doesn't do so anymore now, he keeps them around more out of habit. The clips shift under his fingertips, restless with opportunity.

His eyes flick up to peer between the red curtain of his hair, catching sight of Marinette in the midst of braiding her bangs away from her face. Or, attempting to anyway. Strands keep escaping, until the wing of her bangs resembles more a nest.

He acts before he can think (and it doesn't pass by his notice, how often he seems to do that when he's around her). His red marker sweeps across the figures decisively, colouring in strong bold strokes that fill the page with wings of fire. The page is gently torn out and folded carefully with a cluster of butterfly clips nestled in its center.

With a bit of strategic timing, Nathanaël passes the package to Ivan, who nudges it down to Marinette.

Nathanaël's pretty sure he doesn't breathe the entire time he watches Marinette carefully unfold the paper, and he's not sure if the inability to see her amazingly expressive face is a blessing or a curse this time. Usually it's a curse, for her expressions are the most captivating part of her. He's spent so long trying to copy her emotions in his sketchbook before understanding that Marinette defies capture.

Instead, she inspires, and he finds then that she is that much more real.

Though there is nothing inspiring about the wings that beat harder and harder in his stomach as he watches her smooth his drawing out in front of her. The butterflies begin to sink like lead weights as the seconds tick by.

Just as he's wondering what would be the best way to retrieve his drawing and clips back and pretend nothing ever happened, Ivan slides a small paper airplane in front of him. Doodles of dresses and lace patterns scatter across the white paper, but scrawled across the broad wings in blue ink is Marinette's curly writing.

 _Nathanaël! The drawings are so gorgeous, I don't know what to say! Thank you for them :) And thank you also for the clips. My hair was driving me crazy!_

When Nathanaël looks up this time, he brushes his hair clear from his eyes to see Marinette twisted in her seat to look back at him, her grin bright enough to light the room. Three white butterfly clips tuck the dark wing of her bangs back, clearing the way for the vivid blue of open skies.

.

.

.

A sunset spills between Marinette's fingers, the liquid colours soft and rich against her calloused palms. The long, wide ribbon unfolds in rippling waves of shimmering purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows, until a large square rests in front of her, more blanket than scarf. It is, technically, both. She is properly captivated by the dye job, the weaving, the sheen of high quality silk.

But she's not fooled and Gabriel expects this, even anticipates the sharp turn of thought in her mind. He can see the appreciation in her gaze give way to calculation as her fingertips catch on slubs left in the weave: imperfection purposefully left among perfection.

The gift is exquisite and thoughtful and entirely loaded.

"I was recently made aware that the blue scarf Adrien possesses was, in fact, made and given by you despite what he was led to believe. Consider this a thank you, for what you have done for both me and him." Gabriel deliberately leaves his tone professional, distant, and ambiguous.

He knows of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. How could he not, ever since he made it a point of collecting any and all information available on every one of Adrien's classmates when he started attending public school? He knows how much her parents earn; what grades she got all through collège, lycée, and university; and which extracurricular activities she's been a part of, to say the least. He knows of her talent for design, which was strong enough to win many of his competitions and land an internship with him; and of her ambition, which drives her to open her own design label someday.

He also knows of her relationship with Adrien.

Before, Gabriel had been satisfied of knowing Marinette simply in his peripheries. Involving Adrien however, instantly changes the game and turns her into a high priority key player.

He knows of Marinette Dupain-Cheng; now, he aims to _know_ her.

"That was so long ago… It was my decision, to let him believe it was from you," Marinette says after a moment, her brows furrowed in caution and suspicion. Her eyes meet his unwavering gaze squarely. "I did it for him."

She didn't miss the slight intonation in his words then, the cadence that pointed more to a dismissal than approval. It wasn't entirely personal; but then again, matters involving Adrien had always been personal for Gabriel. Too personal, which often led to him retreating to the other extreme of being too distant.

Funny, how a slip of a girl had the nerve to reprimand him on that in a few words. Her impertinence should have guaranteed her immediate removal from both his company and his son's life; but truthfully, Gabriel is pleased by her fire and how she wields it to protect Adrien, even now.

"And as I understand, he was grateful for your deception," Gabriel says mildly, though there is no mistaking the double-edged reproach hidden in his words.

"It made him happy," Marinette says.

And that was that. They may have differing views of what happiness looks like but Gabriel would have to be a fool to miss the way his son completely lights up and becomes lost within his besotted smile whenever he mentions Marinette.

A fool, Gabriel most certainly is not.

"Then I hope you find the gift to your satisfaction," he returns, and the curl of Marinette's smile tells him that she doesn't miss his subtlety. He starts entertaining the notion that, despite being her superior with the power to ruin or elevate her career, she may have a slight personal vendetta against him on Adrien's behalf. It seems his son is not the only one entirely devoted to his partner.

What Gabriel doesn't say with words, he's already articulated in a single gesture. The blanket scarf is one of a kind, setting the bar for quality, standard, and expectations.

It is both a thanks and a threat.

"It's beautiful," Marinette concedes, as close to a surrender as she'll allow. The scarf turns over in her hands and for a moment, she looks ready to give the gift back. Instead, a new light enters her eyes: an idea. It infuses her smile, sparks her expression into something genuine, if not mischievous. "Thank you then. Or, I guess, you're welcome?"

Her smile has Gabriel wondering what she's playing at. Experience has taught him to value her ideas, though in this moment it only makes him curious and cautious. Satisfied that his intended message has been received and understood by her, he simply offers her a nod before turning heel and distancing himself back into his work.

Sharp as a knife, rather self-righteous, and fiercely loyal. He has a funny feeling that she may actually be perfect for Adrien.

Love is not always enough though, this Gabriel knows from first hand experience. He loathes being wrong, but he hopes Marinette can be the exception for Adrien's sake.

It's years later when she matches him, after she and Adrien have built a life together in their new home, slipping on matching wedding rings, and tucking in their firstborn baby girl for the first time.

The invitation to visit Emma is not unexpected, but it still takes Gabriel a week to face seeing his first grandchild. He's always been aware that while he is a successful businessman and a gifted designer, he has never been the best parent.

An abandoned husband and an absent father already decorates his list of personal achievements. There is shame that he has never been beholden to face until now.

His trepidation ebbs in slow retreat as Marinette passes over Emma swaddled in a familiar, exquisite blanket the rich colours of a sunset. A grandfather's embrace, warm and assured before Gabriel has even seen her.

It is both a kindness and an admonishment.

Carved edges soften and relax, allowing for a genuine smile to settle naturally across Gabriel's face. His arms around Emma are instinctive, if a bit stiff; but Emma is already tenderly and gently cradled by work wrought by his own two hands. A little stiffness, a little structure then is perhaps necessary for some support.

Marinette's smile is knowing when Gabriel looks up. A single nod conveys his gracious acknowledgement and respect of a game well played.

.

.

.

"I thought you couldn't eat this for a long time because it would be toxic for you. _And_ it's also your favourite berry."

"... Strawberry… and chocolate?"

Ladybug passes the other half of her macaron as her answer, the reward for guessing correctly. With quick, delicate bites, Chat polishes the treat off with an appreciative hum. Small red crumbs fall from his clawed fingertips to join the confetti of crumbs decorating the stone beneath them, as multicoloured as the stained glass rose window at their backs.

His hand dips into the paper bag between them and surfaces with a violently pink macaron. He chews thoughtfully as Ladybug watches the twinkling lights of Paris in slumber before them, waiting for him.

Despite the late hour, there are still a few people in the open square before them. One young woman looks up, spots them, and waves. Ladybug is waving back before Chat can react, and he treasures the smile that lights her expression.

They're an easy duo to spot up on the balcony of Notre-Dame. The stonework is lit aglow all night long for the tourists, staining the cathedral the colour of old gold, turning their red and black figures into stark icons.

"It's… it's a type of fruit, I think. Foreign. Sweet and pale-"

"Lychee," Ladybug guesses confidently.

"I feel like you have a distinct advantage in this game," Chat grumbles as he passes the remaining half of his macaron over.

"Maybe, maybe not," she singsongs before shooting him a cheeky grin. "Guess that means you'll have to keep eating and practicing."

"My Lady, are you trying to sweeten me up?" he teases, laughing as Ladybug flicks crumbs in his face in retaliation for the pun.

"You were doing so well too," she sighs dramatically, but she's smiling and poking at his arm and the world has never felt more perfect. She reaches into the bag, rummages around, and frowns. "I think we finished them all."

With practiced familiarity, she folds the empty bag into a small square and hands it Chat, who tucks it into one of his zippered pockets to dispose of later. His fingers run along something else he has stored in his pocket, reminding him of what he brought tonight.

"Wait," he says, his voice soft with nerves and excitement. "There's one more thing."

Curious, Ladybug swings her legs up to sit cross legged, shifting so her attention is fully on him. Her mask only makes her blue eyes that much more luminous, that much more arresting, but her encouraging grin serves as courage enough.

"Happy anniversary, Bugaboo," Chat murmurs as he draws two long ribbons from his pocket, bright red and slender. They ripple from his fingertips, light enough to flutter in the cool breeze that wraps around them. "I know you're not really one to celebrate these kinds of things, but I saw these and thought of you."

"Silly kitty, I would've gotten something for you if I'd known you were going to do this," Ladybug laughs wonderingly.

"Every moment with you is a gift," Chat declares. "And the macarons are a nice bonus."

"Just when I think you can't get any cheesier," she groans, but her tone betrays her fondness. "Thank you, Chat." The ribbons twist in the wind to reach towards her, and she catches the ends instinctively.

The ribbons string between them, arcing in the wind and shimmering with gold light.

Subtly, Chat pulses the pressure of his fingers gripping his ribbon ends, transmitting a message down that he knows she cannot hear or see; but hopefully one she already knows. The ribbons aren't tin can phone lines... but the funny thing, he finds, is that Ladybug inspires belief in the impossible.

Sometimes, he can find small moments of the past with her: happy moments, important moments. Usually, he revels being in the present with her, saving the people and city he loves with his best friend by his side. And always, she gives him a reason to believe in the future.

Ladybug saves Paris. And every day, she saves him a little bit too.

"If you wanted to play cat's cradle, you should've just said so," she says, looking up at him beneath her lashes.

Funny, how she can do that too with just a single look. Turn his heart into bells thundering at her command..

"No need to tie yourself up in knots over it." He flashes a grin that he hopes isn't too transparent at her.

Another flicker of her eyes up at him tells him she's not fooled. She always could read him best.

Gently, she tugs on her ribbon ends; and he lets go.

"Hilarious, coming from you. How many times have you been tied up by an akuma exactly? I'm starting to think you might actually like it when that happens," Ladybug says as she loops and knots one ribbon to a pigtail before doing the other.

"Hey! They catch me by surprise. I create diversions for you, then I'm not paying attention, and really, it was all for the greater good," Chat huffs, his cheeks pinking much to his embarrassment. He neither confirms nor denies the latter part of her observation. "Besides, you always help me out when I'm in a bind."

"I'd never leave you." She meets his gaze squarely, fiercely, her fingers falling away from her hair. Behind her, the two ribbons swoop and twist in the breeze, crimson cursive in the night air.

"I know," he says softly, his confidence and trust in her absolute.

Sometimes, Chat wishes she would because a queen shouldn't be held from securing a checkmate by saving an outmaneuvered knight. He takes those hits because he's selfish enough to sacrifice himself for her.

Ladybug unfurls a small smile at him before looking out over the city once more. Light gilds the edge of her profile and rides along the curve of pigtails down to her ribbons, muting the rest of her features in shadow. She looks a more like a young teenage girl than a superhero who stalks forward into the face of danger to fight, to win.

But Chat remembers, one year ago, how uncertainty and doubt carved unforgiving shadows onto her face as they were harshly told to leave Stoneheart to the professionals, to those who know what they're doing. How fear was the strongest weight that dragged her down, down until her eyes dimmed and her shoulders hunched and her back bowed in defeat.

And he remembers a moment, where his palms gripped her shoulders gently, desperately, because he couldn't allow her to believe her fears. He felt her listen and trust his words, felt when her insecurities burned out so courage could rush into the empty vacuum and reinforce her spine with steel.

That was the moment Ladybug began believing in him. When he became her catalyst.

Chat thinks she may just be a bit selfish for him too.

"Are the ribbons lopsided?" Ladybug asks, her voice quiet enough to meld into the faint ambient noise of the sleeping city.

He knows he's staring, tracing the curves of her cheeks and nose, jumping from each freckle that peeks shyly from beneath her mask. His gaze automatically slides to the ribbons trailing down her back and onto the gold-lit stone of the cathedral.

"I was just thinking they look beautiful on you, my Lady," Chat says, before grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "My _belle."_

"I'm going to make your ears ring for that," Ladybug fires back, her eyes sparking with familiar humour again. Stained glass rose windows have nothing on how colourful her expressions can be.

"Ah, but you already make my heart sing!" he sighs dramatically, earning him a snort from her.

"We both know you can't carry a tune," she reminds him. "Good thing you come with all sorts of bells and whistles already." Playfully, she reaches over to tap his bell, sounding a clear chime in the air.

"And now you do too," Chat says, reaching back and threading his fingers carefully through her ribbons.

He hesitates, searching for her permission and approval before receiving it as she scoots over to sit right next to him. Gently, slowly, he combs his claws through her pigtails, the soothing motion lulling them both into quiet.

The ribbons curve up and twine through his fingers in a sentient manner similar to his tail. They flutter and flirt around his claws, subtle as a heartbeat.

The red silk curls against his palm before he lets them go, his hands open for whenever they choose to return.

* * *

 **AN:** I'm afraid the third chapter will take a little longer to come since it consists mostly of characters I'm least familiar with. I'm also still in the process of planning/writing my flowershop/tattoo au fic so it's a feat of juggling that I'm working on here. As always, I'd love to know who's your favourite character/part!


	3. Plagg, Mylène, Ivan, Sabrina, Lila, HM

There aren't many instances where Plagg will let loose a thundering purr, but curled on top of a warm, soft heater with a full belly guarantees a rumble from him every time. Every inhale tickles his whiskers with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon, a most welcome change from the chemical toxicity of hairspray. His tail whips lazily in the air before curling around him, drawing up more silky black strands to snuggle up against.

Marinette only hums and flips a page of her book, sinking deeper into the beanbag swallowing her up on the floor.

"Traitor," Adrien laughs, like he hadn't given up his heart the moment he met Ladybug, like he doesn't run his fingers through Marinette's hair every chance that he gets.

"You're just jealous," Plagg yawns, rolling so he's belly up on top of Marinette's head.

"Nuh uh," Adrien mutters petulantly. A rearrangement of limbs and a wave of movements later, Adrien sighs contentedly from his spot between Marinette's legs, his head pillowed on her stomach. A low hum rises from his throat as Marinette combs through his hair idly with her fingertips; as she scratches his head, a soft purr rumbles in his chest.

"Needy kitties," Marinette sighs in fond exasperation. "But you boys know that Tikki is my number one."

"That's ok," comes Tikki's mumbled reply from Marinette's shoulder. A rockslide of cookie crumbles tumble down over Marinette's collarbones and into Adrien's hair. "I don't mind sharing."

"Mmm… peanut butter cookies?" Adrien guesses as Marinette brushes the crumbs off. Tikki chirps an affirmative.

"If Tikki can eat cookies-" Plagg begins before Marinette cuts him firmly off.

" _No_ cheese in my hair. Especially camembert."

"No fun to be had anywhere here," Plagg grumbles.

"Oh speaking of fun," Adrien says, "did you still want to go to the Jardins du Trocadéro Christmas market today?"

"Yeah, we should still find something for my parents. And maybe I can find some new gloves and hats, my old ones shrunk in the wash when I did laundry at their place," Marinette sighs. "They're so tiny now."

"I thought that was their way of telling you to give them a grandchild already," Plagg interjects, sniggering when Marinette groans.

"And Sabine's comment on their clothes smelling like cheese was a hint for them to stop eating camembert," Tikki shoots back sweetly, laughing at Plagg's indignant harrumph.

It's too bad that Marinette's pixie cut means the loss of her pigtails; they made for excellent instruments to sneakily smack others with, if Plagg felt inclined. As it is, napping always happens to be the better and easier alternative.

"There's no rush." Adrien presses a sleepy yawn against Marinette's stomach. His fingers come up to play with the hem of her shirt, baring a sliver of smooth skin. "As for hats and gloves… Plagg?"

The prompt has Marinette tilting her head in puzzlement and Plagg rooting himself more firmly in her hair. Most body heat escapes at the top of the head, which makes it the ideal spot for him to melt into a flat pancake: out of sight, out of mind.

"Too far," he mumbles into Marinette's scalp.

"Are you going to make Marinette get her own gift?" The distinctly less sleepy reprimand has Adrien lifting his head up to squint at the lump Plagg has moulded himself into.

"She won't have to," the cryptic reply sails back.

"Marinette is right here and will get up in a second if someone doesn't start making sense." To make good on her threat, Marinette sinks both hands into the beanbag and begins to rise, nudging Adrien off her hips and shaking Plagg from her hair.

"You don't even know where it is! No, stay here, I'll get it," Adrien relents. As Marinette sinks back into the soft green fabric, he leans down and blows a raspberry on her stomach, startling a shriek of laughter from her. Her swat comes a moment too late as he pulls back, an infuriating grin on his face and that soft, dopey look in his eyes that Plagg has seen on his face since the first time he met Ladybug.

"I knew I chose him for a reason," Plagg sniggers as Adrien goes to retrieve something from the bedroom.

"You're terrible." Several millennia together means Plagg knows Tikki's reactions down pat. The shake of her head is more age old habit than anything else.

"I like to call it _efficient_."

"Or just plain lazy," Adrien corrects as he comes back in with a square of soft white wool in his hands, relinquishing it to Marinette's eager and curious expression. "Merry early Christmas Marinette. Love, Plagg."

The soft grumble of "Unnecessary" is washed out by Tikki's giggles as the white square stretches open in Marinette's hands and reveals itself to be a knit hat. The scalloped hem along the bottom anchors the pattern of cable and daisy stitching running up along the center, with rib stitches winging out along the sides.

"Awww, thank you Plagg. I didn't know you cared." Delight curls around Marinette's sass as she presses the soft wool to her face. "I already feel warmer looking at it. Is this merino wool? Ooohh, no wonder it's so cozy…"

"It'll feel cozier if you wear it," Plagg sasses before stretching his arms and splaying himself out even further.

"Move or prepare to be smushed," Marinette warns. With a weary sigh embodying the weight of a thousand years, Plagg reluctantly pushes off her head and floats lazily in the air. The hat slips on and woefully covers the silky black hair that he so loves nestling in; but as the ribbed wings flare from her head, Plagg smugly congratulates himself on his good taste.

Laughter escapes from Adrien as Marinette turns towards him. Following up on her glare, he explains between giggles, "You look like a white cat!"

"Of course you do." Head shake upgrades to an eyeroll from Tikki as she flies up and examines the gift. "Really Plagg? The ears?"

"They're essential," he argues, his whiskers twitching as Marinette reaches up and tweaks the ribbed corners sticking out from her head. Without waiting for her to move, he whirls towards an ear and phases through the material, curling against her hair within the white pocket of space. Wool rubs along his head as Marinette draws her fingers away, inciting yet another low purr.

"I guess the other ear is for you then Tikki," Marinette laughs. A brush of Tikki's magic tickles Plagg's senses as she phases into the unoccupied ear, followed by a croon of delight.

"Oh, this is _wonderful_ ," Tikki sighs blissfully. "So warm. So soft."

"So lovely," Adrien adds. A soft smack informs Plagg of a smooch given. He can't really blame his chosen; with the white wool covering all of Marinette's hair, she is all big blue eyes and dark freckles against pale skin.

Not every one of Tikki's Ladybugs has been met with enthusiasm from Plagg, though his kittens are always drawn to her bugs one way or another. So while Adrien's adoration of Marinette is hardly a surprise, Plagg is unprepared for how much he likes her himself. Loves her, even. His instincts perked up at her early on, since one fateful rainy day with a black umbrella long ago, whispering that there is something special about her. Something raw and unformed, but powerful and magnetic.

She is fierce for someone so tiny. And she makes his boy smile and laugh with a light that can brighten a stormy sky. She makes him so, so, so happy.

Plagg could love Marinette for that alone.

Except he didn't think that for all the times she's fought with Chat in harmonized synchronicity, for all the instances where her stubbornness meant someone got hurt, for all the late nights she's spent baking cookies for Tikki and cutting up cheese wedges for him, for all the moments where she believes herself inadequate, he would end up loving her more for who she is.

When Marinette falls, she rises again, teeth gritted, eyes burning, muscles shaking, strong enough to push back against a storm, and soft enough to reach for Adrien as she does so.

As Plagg loves Adrien for his heart, he loves Marinette for her humanity.

Though oftentimes, her humanity sounds like curse words as she stands and trips over her book, and feels like exasperation as she pulls on her jacket and the zipper jams up. Adrien's teasing only earns him a nip from her before they are both bundled up and ready to head out.

The cold presses in immediately as they walk out of their apartment complex and onto the street thinly veiled in snow. Inside his little white pocket, Plagg happily basks in Marinette's warmth.

With the Jardins du Trocadéro only a stone's throw away from their building, it doesn't take long before the warm smells of chestnut and cinnamon saturate the air, freshened with sharp hints of mint and holly. Christmas music hums from various speakers, mingled with the bells of several carolers. As Marinette's and Adrien's steps crunch a conversation, the distant sound of children playing colours the air, lighting a mischievous idea within Plagg.

He doesn't have to wait long before he hears a child running up to greet them. As Marinette bends down to hug Manon, he purposefully stretches and bumps against his wool walls, kneading away at Marinette's hair.

"You look like a real cat, Marinette!" Manon exclaims. "Your ear even moves!"

"Oh, that's just my hand!" Adrien hurries to assure her, his hand flying up to grip the ear Plagg is in. Never one to waste an opportunity, Plagg gives him a hard nip. "Se- _ouch!_ "

"Souch?" Manon repeats, confused.

"It's a treat!" Marinette blurts. Plagg buries his head into her hair, snickering. "I think they might sell some here in the market. You should see if your mom can find you some!"

On cue, Nadja's voice calls Manon over. After pressing quick kisses to both Marinette's and Adrien's cheeks, she bounces away. As she and Nadja walk away, Plagg can hear her ask if they can try some 'souches'.

"You are _terrible_ ," Marinette hisses, reaching up and poking at his ear.

"I was just stretching," Plagg protests innocently. He can hear Tikki's snort an ear away. He hasn't been innocent in eons.

"It's just Plagg being Plagg," Adrien sighs, and that seems to say it all. "C'mon, I hear some gingersnap cookies that are calling my name."

"I swear you could sense the nearest cookie even if an apocalypse happened," Marinette laughs, twining her hand through Adrien's and following him into the swell of market festivities.

With over five thousand years lived and lost, Plagg knows it's the simple things in life that are the hardest won and sweetest to savour. With the singing of bells and laughter of children falling thick through the air like snow, with Adrien burning his tongue on hot chocolate and Marinette snickering as she kisses his lips better, Plagg thinks that, for a god of bad luck, he did alright this time around.

.

.

.

The currency of childhood looks a little less like green strips of paper and the aged metal of coins, and a little more like the sparkly fabric of hair ties, the intricate knotting of bracelets, and the shiny plastic of buttons.

It's the kind of currency that buys temporary gratification and friendship rather than material goods, and the kind of currency that is much easier for a child to acquire- even make.

That is how it starts: with the desire to trade something for Kim's amazingly patterned band-aids. Not that Mylène needs said band-aids, not that Kim doesn't have enough to wallpaper an entire house with them, but they come in a rainbow of colours and a world of designs. It's enough for Mylène to spend a weekend learning how to make printed buttons with pins at the back to bribe Kim with.

Button making, she finds, is easy. Easy, cheap, and fun, all good reasons for Mylène to spend most of her free time at home mass producing them. Unlike Kim though, she doesn't hoard them all to herself until offered with a better deal; the buttons are offered as easily as her smiles.

A few of them have words, some come in an assortment of colours, most bear a pretty or an interesting image. There are always a number of choices to select from since Mylène's imagination never runs dry.

Some kids pick one in an instant, and others take their time and deliberate carefully before purposefully selecting their prize. Mylène loves the way Marinette considers each and every button displayed on the backpack with appreciation and interest before taking her pick.

Marinette keeps them all too; this, Mylène also loves. Many buttons end up rolling into dark and forgotten corners on the floor, or flipping their way into the trash. It's no personal offense to her because buttons are cheap and easy and quick, and the attention span of children can be deplorably short; but Marinette collects them, treasures them, and loves them like Mylène does.

For a while, buttons are the biggest trend in school; everyone would show up decked out in all the buttons they received or traded for. The plastic would wink at Mylène from their clothes and she'd go home and make more, extraordinarily pleased that she brought so many people together.

But trends come and go; kids grow up and change; concerts, clothes, and phones replace band-aids, gum, bracelets, and beads.

And still, Mylène makes her buttons.

And still, Marinette accepts them with enthusiasm.

She's the only one who anticipates them now, even when everybody else has forgotten about the button trend. Most of the time these days, Mylène will make one or two every now and then for herself; but, she has to admit, there's something satisfying about making something for someone else as well.

On rare occasions, Marinette will request a custom button, usually in a bright, solid colour. It's a small detail, but one Mylène wonders over since she knows Marinette to love patterns.

Regardless, the button is made and received with a radiant smile that is Marinette's unique charm. She smooths her fingers over the plastic surface and clicks the pin at the back with the habit of long practice before carefully pocketing the button.

That is something else Mylène wonders: where the buttons go. Mylène's own buttons colonized first on her backpack before migrating to the fair grounds of her green jacket where they rest like established capitals. Mireille had attached hers to her hair accessories; Sabrina had strung hers together into a necklace; Kim had once used all of his to pin the entire bottom edge of his shirt to the elastic top of his shorts, just to see if he could.

A few buttons had stared out from the face of Marinette's bag, but it wasn't even a fraction of the number that Mylène knew her to possess. None decorate Marinette's clothes or bags now, even as she accepts the occasional button from Mylène.

It's not really her place to ask; Mylène is happy that Marinette still wants her buttons at all, but curiosity sings a relentless and irresistible tune.

"Guess," Marinette laughs when Mylène finally asks her.

"You… decorate your room with them?"

"Nope." A funny smile crosses Marinette's face at the suggestion, lighting her expression with a telling shade of embarrassment.

"You hand them out at the bakery," Mylène tries again.

"If I did, they'd all come with cupcakes with your name spelled on them!" There is no doubt that Marinette would make and frost each of those cupcakes herself for Mylène's sake.

The sentiment warms Mylène. Encouraged by Marinette's gentle teasing, she doles her speculations out more freely.

"You're designing something with them? Maybe a recycled material project? Or you're making a time capsule? Oh, maybe you put them all on a string and made streamers. Or a flag! You could make a country with all the buttons you have."

"I should've asked you for ideas ages ago!" Delight infuses Marinette's laughter, turning it infectious. "Is that what you did with yours? You must have so many more than me."

"Actually, I give most of them away," Mylène admits. "It makes people happy."

" _You_ make people happy," Marinette corrects. "I'll show you tomorrow what I've been doing with the buttons! I'm just about done anyway."

"Done?" Mylène catches on, intrigued.

"You'll see." Marinette grins bright with her promise.

And really, it's hard to miss Marinette the next day. She shows up late to school, and where her entrances are usually given just a passing glance from the class who are more than used to her habits, everyone's attention fixates on her the moment she steps through the door.

Her denim jacket is _covered_ in buttons that polka-dot across every inch of its surface. The shiny plastic winks faintly in the light with her every movement and click a quiet conversation when they collide. It's a look that's equally ridiculous as it is strangely nostalgic.

When class goes on break, everyone crowds around Marinette in an instant.

"You look like a broken disco ball," Chloé sneers, backed up by Sabrina's derisive laughter.

"And you look like you've chipped a nail," Marinette fires back sweetly. The buttons along her arms click in quiet laughter as she crosses her arms, watching Chloé fuss over her hands.

The desire for solid, brightly coloured buttons suddenly makes sense to Mylène now. She had been right, in a way: Marinette loves patterns. It had never occurred to Mylène to amass enough buttons to create a larger design; but, she acknowledges, thinking of the big picture has always been Marinette's strength.

Mylène didn't think strength would look like spots of hard plastic layered over soft denim, but the buttons give Marinette a film of protection, turning her simple jacket into a suit of armour.

And yet for all that it may appear silly and childish, Marinette wears it with the ease of confidence and good humour. Mylène wonders how often Marinette must have worn the jacket before she became comfortable in it.

"Dude, this was what I was telling you about!" Nino's exclaims, nudging Adrien in the side. "We were all so obsessed with buttons for a long time. I can't believe you still have all of yours, Marinette!"

"I'm pretty sure I lost all of mine," Kim adds.

"No, Kim, you kept breaking them when you tried to use them in hopskotch," Mylène reminds him. Laughter greets the old memory as everyone recalls all the incidences Kim incited when they were younger.

"I'm not surprised you kept yours, Marinette. It sounds like these are pretty important," Adrien comments. Mylène is close enough to him to catch the whisper of longing ghost along his voice, to see his eyes linger upon the bright buttons.

Marinette is not as close, but Mylène isn't surprised to see her unpin a bright red button to offer to Adrien. Marinette's crush is hardly a secret (to all but the oblivious object of her affections), but Mylène also understands the sensitivity borne from caring for another so deeply. Ivan is a solid, comforting mass behind Mylène, a source of her own strength.

"Anyone can wear a button," Marinette says as Adrien slowly takes the gift. He pins it onto his shirt, a spot of red on black, and beams in a way that warms Marinette's cheeks a sunburned pink.

"Yeah, return of the buttons!" Kim whoops. "Hey, Marinette, can I have one too?"

"You always broke or lost yours, remember?" Marinette swings her attention over to him, her cheeks still flushed. "Mylène makes each of these herself. If you want any buttons again, you should ask her."

Mylène laughs when Kim turns to her with the same enthusiastically eager expression she remembers from when they were kids. It's like no time has passed, and the bubble of excitement and anticipation she remembers from making buttons for everyone surfaces once more.

She goes home that night with requests from most everyone in the class. She sits down at her desk and pulls her button machine towards her, a gift from her father many years ago.

The first button she makes isn't the dinosaur that Kim wants, or the electric blue star that Nino requests. It isn't the adorable picture of a kitten that Rose desires, or the punny joke that Adrien cheekily asks for.

Her first button is Marinette pink, patterned with navy spots reminiscent of Marinette's multicoloured button jacket. The paper circle cut-out slips unexpectedly in the machine, creasing the paper right down the middle, like the demarcation of wings. The result looks unexpectedly pleasing and purposeful, as if it was always meant to be a part of the design.

When it's done, she pins it onto the front of her jacket. If not for the pink and blue, Mylène would think her button looks a little like a ladybug.

.

.

.

There's not much Ivan has to offer.

Correction: there's not much Ivan _wants_ to offer.

It's pretty simple. Ivan likes to keep things simple. He's an easy kind of guy that way. He does his own thing, and so long as no one provokes (Chloé) or teases (Kim) him about it, life is pretty uncomplicated.

Uncomplicated is comforting. Uncomplicated is kind, which is a welcome constant since more often than not, Ivan finds kindness from his peers to be dressed in mockery.

He's hard to relate to; he gets that. His music taste no one seems to share, his size most people seem wary if not intimidated by, his demeanour deters rather than invites. It's a recipe for solitude… and one that still leaves him unexpectedly hungry for companionship after.

He blames his classmates for that. Even if most of them keep some measure of distance, love still comes from Mylène's open arms, engagement from Kim's teasing, strength from Alya's conversation, empathy from Marinette's steady gaze.

There isn't much Ivan will do for other people. He finds though, that it is easier paying back an attitude in kind.

So when he hears the faint sound of crying as he pushes into the boy's locker room and spots the unmistakable pink and black of Marinette tucked up in a corner, he doesn't back out in embarrassment or disgust. His large frame edges into the empty space with caution and consideration. Compassion is a skin that Ivan doesn't quite know how to fit into but that he wears without hesitation; after all, he remembers a time when he had escaped to isolation to lick at wounds carved by Kim's taunts, only to look up and find a balm in Marinette's presence as she reached out to him.

It had been such a little thing what she did for him that day, listening to all the things he couldn't say and lifting his hopes and spirits with her encouragement, but it meant a lot to him. There'd been no pity, no mockery, no judgement, just a unique blend optimism and understanding that she offered and he accepted.

It's different, being on the other end. When Marinette lifts her head at the sound of his steps and bares her vulnerability in her startled gaze and wet cheeks, Ivan feels more the awkward intruder than well-meaning comforter.

"Ivan?" Her whisper scrapes over his name like sandpaper, loud as a shout in the empty locker room. "This is the girl's…"

Marinette's voice trails off as her blue eyes focus on something behind him. Ivan doesn't need to turn around to know she's caught sight of the urinals; the dawning realization that pales her face a mortified white tells him all.

"...boy's locker room," he corrects. The alarm that upsets Marinette's face propels him forward until he can slide down the lockers and plant himself next to her, a boulder shielding her view.

His shoulders bunch up, tense with uncertainty. It's rare that he's in a position to comfort someone else; rarer that they want his comfort. Still, Ivan offers his solidarity, the best he knows to give from his limited experience.

Marinette offers him the smallest smile before resting her forehead on drawn up knees, hiding her face. At her acceptance of his presence and their location, a slow exhale empties Ivan's lungs and loosens the tension strung across his chest.

They sit together in shared silence for a few moments.

"It's been… a long day." The admittance trickles out from a crack in Marinette's curled form. She huffs at herself. "Long week. Long _month_ really."

Her spine curves further as she bows down over her knees, a comma caught between two worlds.

"I'm so tired," she says simply.

Ivan glances over at Marinette and reads what she doesn't say. Exhaustion drapes heavy over her shoulders, stress hardens her mouth, responsibilities roll in a mess down her cheeks.

He has only ever known Marinette at her strongest, at her kindest, at her tallest. When she is joking with Alya, standing up to Chloé, reassuring Juleka, tripping over Adrien, she is spirit in motion, all quicksilver smiles and words. As someone who sits at the peripheries and prefers to remain in a state of solidity, Ivan not only tolerates but appreciates Marinette's fluidity and how she knows when to push and when to settle.

Now though, he wonders the price she pays for maintaining that equilibrium.

It's really not something Ivan can relate to or understand, so he doesn't try. Eloquence has never been a strong point for him, so he has no words to offer up that can help or comfort. But maybe that isn't what she needs.

He stands, a slow and steady process that's mindful of the space he fills and the space around Marinette he leaves untouched, and moves to his locker. After twirling the combo open, he rummages around until he finds what he is looking for.

When Marinette looks back up at his approach, a black t-shirt with _Jagged Stone_ emblazoned on the front drips from his fingers.

"I don't have a tissue," Ivan explains. He doesn't know how to offer a hug to her either when he knows Marinette to be a tactile person, so he gives her the next best thing.

"Ivan, I- I don't want to ruin… it's ok, I don't…" Marinette trails off as he slides down to sit next to her again, t-shirt resolutely held out to her. He won't force her to take it, but he won't move on the matter either when it's clear she has need of it.

"It's clean," he adds when she still hesitates.

A watery chuckle bubbles weakly from Marinette as she takes the shirt. She hugs it close to her chest, and when her fingers smooth over the Jagged Stone print, a faint smile whispers across her face.

It's only because he's watching her that he sees the moment she goes tense, her arms tightening around the shirt, her eyes cutting over to noise just outside the door. Ivan turns just as the locker door opens and the loud laughing and joking of two boys Ivan's seen from the year below them punch into the space. They knock and jostle into each other, an intrusion of kinetic energy interrupting the fragile calm.

It takes them a moment to catch sight of Ivan but when they do, he levels the most intimidating glare at them, shoulders rolling forwards to make him appear larger, darkness shadowing his eyes to live up to every stereotypical impression others have judged him to be. His frame provides an unbreachable divide, a mountain that refuses to negotiate.

The boys take the hint and flee, sucking up the tide of their voices and leaving the locker room dry with silence once again.

Ivan releases his shoulders and straightens his gaze, shrinking back into his own mass and shifting to settle back into his own skin again. He doesn't like how others read anger and threats within his demeanour so easily- hates it, actually- but at the moment, that doesn't matter.

"Thank you," Marinette says. Simple words for complex emotions.

He mumbles something in response but it isn't the words that are important. He knows that Marinette could've dealt with those boys just fine on her own, even in her deflated state. He also knows that sometimes, a little help goes a long way; that sometimes, strength from a friend can be an anchor when trying to believe in strength in self.

They spend the rest of break sitting together on the locker room floor, comfort found in solidarity.

Marinette offers the shirt back the next day, clean and washed, but Ivan refuses, citing that he doesn't like Jagged Stone very much anyway (a lie, to be honest; Jagged Stone is very much his guilty pleasure music that he will never admit to even as Marinette holds proof in her hands).

"Keep it," he insists, immovable.

Her blue eyes rove his face, searching for what he doesn't say, and when she finds it, an understanding smile lights her face. She tucks the t-shirt back into her bag, safe and snug.

It's not much. He doesn't have much. He understands better now though that it was never about what he lacked, but what he had to offer. As Marinette pulls him into a hug, Ivan finally gets that he has always been enough.

.

.

.

The key to making people happy, Sabrina learns early on in life, is to give them what they want. Consequently, the ideal is to _be_ what they want. Realistically, the closest she can get is becoming the necessary conduit to the desired objective that the other person needs. Values. _Wants_.

It's close enough. Keeping herself of interest to another person- a friend, especially- is to make herself useful after all.

"Sabrina!" Chloé's imperious voice yanks like a leash. "Hurry up, we still need to find a dress for you."

The precariously balanced bags in Sabrina's arms shift so they settle a little more comfortably before she rushes to keep pace with Chloé down the expansive floor of the mall. Chloé's steps lay down a firm tempo and Sabrina gives a burst of speed until she's finally in rhythm, an echo at Chloé's elbow.

"Red would look terrible on you- good thing at least it looks good on me- and yellow is my colour." Chloé glances at Sabrina with an appraising gaze. "... maybe purple."

"Oh, purple is my favourite colour!" Sabrina chimes eagerly. It's not really a lie; she likes some colours more than others, but none strongly enough to deem a favourite. Chloé's colour choice looks like confidence and approval, and it dresses Sabrina before Sabrina has the chance to try anything on.

The fit doesn't even matter; Sabrina decides already that she loves it.

"Yes, well, you need just the right shade of purple otherwise you'll look ghastly. Good thing I have excellent shopping skills," Chloé compliments herself before swinging into a store. The door snaps shut a hairsbreadth after Sabrina manages to squeeze on in with the bags in her arms smacking the glass in her haste.

The store glitters in a pristine white that highlights the jewel hoard of designer clothes displayed prominently from the racks. The place even smells rich with perfumed cloth. It's the sort of place that Sabrina wouldn't even consider given the exorbitant prices, but one she gets to appreciate and benefit from now thanks to Chloé.

Sabrina sets the bags down on one of the plush chairs and wanders a few racks away from the row of deep red dresses Chloé is contemplating for herself. Sharply constructed blazers warn Sabrina to keep her distance; flowing blouses ripple away as if they are too good to touch; dramatic skirts glare at her with glinting embroidery.

The entire store loudly stares her down until she shrinks back towards the relative safety of shoes and accessories. Perhaps she can find something to offer to Chloé here.

The friendly sight of patterns draws Sabrina's eye like a hook and she edges away from the bold, accusing colours of the racks behind her to the variety of tights displayed before her. Packaged in small boxes so only a small sample of fabric shows, they are much easier for her to appreciate and admire. Knit wool warms her fingertips, sheer nylon glides over her palm, and fishnet catches upon her knuckles.

Sabrina works her way through the display until she finds herself at its back where the discount items sit forlornly. The decreased price tag alone is enough to make them unsatisfactory to someone like Chloé, but they aren't completely without potential.

"Just _what_ are you doing?" Chloé demands as she stalks up to Sabrina.

A touch panicked at Chloé's impending approach, Sabrina plucks her prize from the discount rack and holds it up for Chloé to see. The purple tights displayed through the box clearly received the tail end of a dye job, with the colour fading to a weak dusty grey at the bottom.

"Just thinking this might be perfect for Marinette," Sabrina suggests sweetly, arrowing for Chloé's sensitive spot. She inwardly sighs in relief as it works when Chloé takes the box with a considering gleam in her eyes.

"From the reject pile too," Chloé laughs. "You can give this to her in class tomorrow." It's not so much a suggestion as it is a command.

They both walk away from the store at the end of the day several purchases heavier and several laughs lighter over Marinette's inevitable reaction to such an ugly pair of tights. Chloé's anticipation and derision fuels Sabrina's own simmering eagerness to make her best friend happy.

Except when Marinette eyes the offered tights in Sabrina's hands the next day, she doesn't yell, become insulted, or blindly accept the gift as Sabrina thought she would. Instead, Marinette's brow furrows before her blue eyes flick up to consider Sabrina's innocent smile.

"I didn't ask you for anything," Marinette says, her expression betraying a measure of discomfort.

"We're friends, aren't we?" Sabrina allows her lower lip to tremble and her eyes to droop as if bracing herself to be brutally rejected.

"I think the last thing you said to me was that I'm exactly like Chloé," Marinette counters dryly.

"Any Chloé is my very best friend!" How dare Marinette misread her words like that, even if she had meant something completely different in the previous context. The box in Sabrina's hands shake as she starts to draw it back towards herself before Marinette's sigh stops her.

"Ok, ok, just this once," Marinette accepts. Instantly, Sabrina straightens up and cheerfully shoves the box into her hands, a triumphant smile split across her face.

"Great! I'm sure they'll look amazing on you!" Sabrina exclaims.

"I- uh…" Marinette trails off as she examines the sad purple and grey of the tights for the first time. "Well, um…"

"I can't wait to see you wear them." Sabrina nails Marinette in with a sweet, hopeful smile. At Marinette's reluctant nod, Sabrina knows she will be bearing a victory flag back to Chloé. The bait is taken, the trap is set, and all is left is to enjoy the show.

Chloé's interest in Marinette never wanes, so by extension Sabrina pays hawkish attention to Marinette's arrival at school the next day, waiting to see how the mighty will fall.

When Marinette skids into class, late as always, Sabrina almost gets whipped across the cheek from Chloé's ponytail as she does a double take. Sabrina's eyes immediately drop to Marinette's tights, blinking hard when instead of the sad, dusty purple and grey, she sees a vibrant ombré of deep purple to dark pink. The tights look nothing like the pair Sabrina gave her the previous day, and if it wasn't for the visible telltale stitching of the brand, she would suspect trickery.

"Nice tights Marinette. They look good on you," Sabrina comments when Marinette stops in front of their desk.

The look of disgust that Chloé shoots Sabrina has her regretting her words, but Marinette draws her attention away with a thank you. In a move that fools no one, Chloé sits back in her seat feigning extreme disinterest, a clear divorce from the situation, leaving Sabrina on her own.

"It was a pretty cool challenge actually. I've been wanting to try out this dye kit I had for ages and this was the perfect thing! If you want a pair, let me know and I can do one for you," Marinette offers. The glare she levels at Chloé is fierce- their ploy hadn't passed by unnoticed after all- but when her gaze focuses on Sabrina, it's open with sincerity.

Startled, Sabrina only stares wide eyed back at Marinette, trying to pick apart what it is Marinette really wants. She is so used to adopting other people's wants as her own that Marinette's direct offer gives her pause.

"Well, think about it," Marinette says. "No pressure though. Whatever makes you happy."

"Are you happy with how your tights turned out?" Sabrina asks.

In a twirl that makes her white skirt flare, Marinette is impossible to look away from. From the tips of her light pink flats deepening up to the dark rose pinks and deep purples of her tights, interrupted by the cloud of her skirt before topping with a light blue sweater, Marinette is sky incarnate. Change looks effortless on her.

"Yeah," Marinette smiles. "Pretty pleased."

As Marinette shakes her sleeves back from her hands, her fingers peek out. They're stained with purple and red dye splotches, lasting marks of her labour. Disquieted, it takes Sabrina a moment to see how Marinette has shaped and moulded herself into her own person, independent and confident and beautiful. A slow process of staining into irrevocable change, for better or for worse.

Most of Sabrina's life has been a process of learning where people's needs lie, what to do to impress others, when to speak up, how to find her place. At this point, she is very good at recognizing people's selfishness and finding a definition of herself that will echo after them.

Except Marinette is no mirror she can copy from; Marinette evades capture like that. It leaves Sabrina feeling like the world has shifted, like the gravitational pull towards others that she relies on so much changes. It takes her a moment to find her voice again.

"Good," Sabrina finally answers. "I'm happy for you then."

.

.

.

"You know, I know Donatella Versace and Sarah Burton personally. I modeled for a few of Dona's collections, and the McQueen Fall 2016 line was inspired after me."

Lila drapes herself over the staircase railing with her chin resting on top of folded hands. Amusement colours her features as Marinette gives a mild shriek and knocks the open fashion magazine on her lap to the ground. Marinette nearly faceplants off the stairs in her haste to scoop the glossy magazine up, but she manages to right herself before folding the pages closed in her hands. Lila's heard about Marinette's chronic clumsiness but seeing it in effect gives her a better picture of what she's working with.

Marinette's clipped response is hardly the reaction Lila expects. "Is that so?"

"Of course," Lila says. She'd go and sit next to Marinette, but something in the other girl's demeanour radiates suspicion rather than admiration. "They're _so_ nice. If you want, I can talk to them about meeting with you. I heard you really like fashion."

A spark leaps up in Marinette's eyes and her expression brightens with hunger for a brief moment before shuttering closed. When her lips purse, Lila gets the strange impression that Marinette is purposefully putting distance between them. A perplexing outcome considering Lila's been catering to all of Marinette's interests and massaging at her soft spots.

She gives it one more shot. She's gained everybody else's recognition and admiration; surely, Marinette should be no different.

"You know how the McQueen Fall 2016 line is so eye-catching? Like how the collection is a blurring between reality and dreams? That came about because Sarah said she'd never met anyone as fantastical as me."

Marinette raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Lila leans over the railing to come closer, her hair sliding forwards to brush against Marinette's shoulders. The proximity has Marinette visibly tensing, but she stays solidly seated on her step, not budging an inch.

"Who knows, maybe the Spring 2017 line will be inspired by you… if you want me to talk to her for you." Lila dangles the bait, and waits for it to catch.

"The Fall collection was beautiful," Marinette muses. She evades the tantalizing offer with a doggedness that's beginning to grate on Lila. "'Like the clothes were spun from dreams.'"

"That's exactly what I said," Lila chirps.

"I was actually quoting Vogue." The magazine in Marinette's hands waves up like a warning flag, the glossy cover glaring in the light. "It also has an article all about Sarah's process on that collection… and not once did it mention you."

"Well, you can't expect magazines to always get things right." Lila straightens up on the railing, her fingers gripping the edge a little tighter. Movement mirrors her as Marinette sits up as well, her blue eyes rising up to meet Lila's gaze suspiciously. _Accusingly_. Her gaze reminds Lila of a particular spotted superheroine, and the memory completely sours Lila's demeanour.

She stops dancing and and cuts to the chase. "You seem to have a hard time believing me. For class president, your way of welcoming newcomers leaves a lot to be desired."

The strike to the jugular isn't a tactic Lila usually uses; in fact, she loathes using it at all. Her pride stems from her art of enacting subtlety, and resorting to blunt tactics makes her feel clumsy and outplayed. That Marinette forced her hand stirs the hot boil of frustration simmering in her nerves.

"I'm sorry. I just find it hard to believe you actually know all these people," Marinette explains, her tone carefully neutral. It doesn't fool Lila for a second; she can still see the way Marinette's eyes tighten at the corners, the way her fingers drum persistently against the magazine cover.

Her suspicions, Lila is sure, have absolutely no foundation. After all, the only other time they've interacted was a brief introduction when Lila first joined the class. That Marinette would be so quick to judge her within a few minutes of actually talking to each other is as good as a slap.

Lila's heard how Marinette's clumsiness is charming, even endearing, but all she sees is gracelessness. She didn't think it would extend appallingly to Marinette's manners as well. Someone should tell Marinette that she is as subtle as a brick.

It's clear here too that someone should set the better example, so Lila arms herself up and bares a dangerously gracious smile. "My parents _are_ diplomats. We go to a lot of fancy functions. I end up meeting many persons of interest."

"Yeah," Marinette says, her own smile a twist of irony. "I've heard you've met Steven Spielberg. That you even met _Ladybug_."

Something in Marinette's expression darkens, but her gaze dropping down to her magazine seems to suggest it's an expression aimed more towards herself than Lila. Regardless, Lila's hackles rise and her eyes narrow at the mention of Paris' resident heroine.

"Steven is very charming, very funny. Ladybug..." Lila sniffs. "I met her. She doesn't seem to be much of a hero."

"She saves the city every day!" Marinette defends, her eyes rising up to meet Lila's gaze.

"She's a bully," Lila snaps.

The words seem to hit Marinette like a physical blow, causing her to flinch away from the railing. She takes a deep breath, then admits, "Ladybug's not perfect. She makes mistakes. Everyone does; she's as human as the rest of us."

"She's someone with the abilities and the influence that the entire city of Paris will listen to. She should know, that when she thinks she has the right to use that power against someone, it'll hurt that much more too," Lila growls, phantom wounds prickling across her body. "Or maybe that particular sort of pleasantry is only extended to foreigners."

Bitterness and hurt catches on the threads of her voice, sprouting barbs that are impossible to smooth over. There are no lasting physical reminders of her time as Volpina, but Lila knows there are scars in her mind that are not so easily forgiven or forgotten. They stitch the patchwork of her anger and knit a gnarled net of her resentment that tangles up in a tight knot the more they roll at the bottom of her stomach.

Marinette rises from her seat on the staircase to stand, and her hand flutters up to rest on the railing separating them. The intensity of her blue eyes focuses onto Lila, and there is no trace of clumsiness in the way she carries herself; only a sort of natural, confident grace that Lila envies.

"I think," Marinette says slowly, her words untangling themselves from her thoughts as she speaks, "Ladybug tries to do the right thing, and she is genuinely sorry when she doesn't. It's a learning process for her still. But she doesn't discriminate. She just doesn't like liars."

The anger that growls at Ladybug rears its head to fixate on Marinette. 'Liar' warms Lila's cheeks like an unwelcome kiss that lingers.

"You seem to know her really well," Lila comments.

There's a slightest pause before Marinette reveals, "We're friends." It's the truth, as far as Lila can tell; but just not all of it.

The conversation has veered far from how Lila planned it, and it feels like she's lost more than she's gained. Before she has the chance to regain control, Marinette seizes the reins.

"Anyway, thanks for offering to talk to Donatella or Sarah for me. But honestly, I would rather get to know _you_ ," Marinette says, kindness softening her expression into something more open and inviting.

The simple offer is the smallest shift that completely changes Lila's perception of her. For a split second, Lila almost believes there is a different Marinette entirely standing before her on the other side of the stair railing. It's an illusion that leaves her unsettled, an offer that's meant to engage but leaves her wary.

Lila is excellent at reading people, and Marinette is not hard to understand. There is true sincerity in Marinette's clear eyes and in her easygoing tone, but her words feel like a trap. Friends and admirers are what Lila set out to collect, but the price of vulnerability that Marinette wants is too high, too chancy. There is so much more to lose in something that real.

"Maybe another time," Lila replies as she takes a step back from the railing, her hands tucking into the pockets of her jacket. Her fingers grip the fox tail necklace sitting warm in her pocket, wishing that it could grant her the power to recreate this entire conversation so she could slant it in her favour.

She's been outplayed twice, and the trickery, however unintentional, shapes her anger into something almost tangible. The curve of the fox tail flows like a lick of fire against the pads of her fingers.

"Another time," Marinette promises, offering her another friendly smile.

Lila's eyes narrow as they catch the shine that curves over Marinette's earrings when she turns away. Marinette should know: tricks don't work on tricksters.

.

.

.

Low humming resonates through the city, vibrating at a frequency only Hawkmoth can feel. None are strong enough for his butterflies to stir, or for the amplification of his window to resonate with.

There are people hurt, desperate, spiteful, and scared out there, but none close enough to Ladybug and Chat Noir to be of any use. He's engaged in this fight often enough to develop a sensitivity to the humming that warps with their particular tones. A reaction, he knows, to their Miraculous energies. Powerful, even when inactive.

"Master," a voice whispers up. When Hawkmoth turns to look at Nooroo, the kwami ducks his head in submission. "I must eat."

"Yes," Hawkmoth murmurs as he procures a container of blackberries, rich and succulent, from his jacket. "I need to pass a message along with the next akuma."

Nooroo pauses in his reach for the food before daring to ask, "A message?"

"A trade," Hawkmoth says. His gaze cuts over to Nooroo. "Of kwami."

He spots the briefest flicker of hope in Nooroo's eyes before they dim. "They won't take it."

The laugh that rumbles through his chest is low and dark. "I know. That is not the point."

Neither of them say any more. Nooroo nibbles at his blackberries and Hawkmoth stands, waiting for the right vibration to come calling to him. The brooch sits cold and heavy in his palm. For a moment, he imagines the sharp prick of earrings and the smooth face of a ring in its stead.

He can almost _taste_ their power, heady and potent. His fingers curl tightly over his own brooch, over the image of the woman he is doing all of this for.

It's not long before a dissonant humming rings clear through the air. The frequency has the windows shuddering open, the butterflies rising aloft on waves of sound as he pins his brooch to his shirt.

"Transform me," he commands. Nooroo obeys, dropping his remaining blackberry as he swirls into his Miraculous in a flare of purple light, saturating Hawkmoth with his power.

Hawkmoth stamps his cane down in a sharp jab before calling a butterfly to his palm. The anger that rings through the air collects in a bubble of purple power, suffusing the white butterfly until it is stained with its victim's imprint. The akuma flutters out of the window, winging purposefully towards its target.

A smile curls on Hawkmoth's face as his akuma lands and his champion rises.

Flashes flicker in front of his eyes as Nooroo's magic binds them together, allowing him to peer out of his champion's eyes. He gets a front row seat to the chaos his champion sows in turning each citizen she stings into angry, albeit clumsy hornets as large as a young child. What they lack in quality, they make up for in quantity.

Ladybug appears quickly in a blur of red, nimbly evading the paralyzingly sting of the hive. She doesn't fight so much as she dodges, snapping her yoyo out to make a call that goes unanswered.

Hawkmoth seizes the rare opportunity to talk to her alone. Like the Miraculouses, their wielders are stronger when together. Isolated, they are much more malleable and open to suggestion.

"Ladybug," his champion calls out, guided by his thoughts. The hornets back off and settle in a loose ring around them, alert and waiting. "Hawkmoth wishes to propose a deal."

Quiet echoes in the streets for a stunning moment, broken by Ladybug's, " _No_." Her answer strikes out like a punch, already on the offense.

"A trade: his kwami for yours."

"Why would you _ever_ think I would agree to that?" Her yoyo whips out, calling forth her Lucky Charm in the form of a pair of handcuffs. The drop into her hands with an ominous jangle.

"You're right," his champion purrs, her tone dropping to a dangerous hum. Her hornets shift around them, quivering with tension. "It hardly seems like a fair trade. Maybe it makes more sense if I offer the deal to Chat Noir. I'm sure he'd be willing to make the trade... if it was in the interest of saving _you_."

The yoyo snaps back to Ladybug's hip with a sharp click as she marches forward, unafraid of the toxic stingers his champion wields. Her blue eyes fill the entirety of his vision, crackling with a tumultuous storm that only promises devastation. Her body resonates with her anger, tremours leaking out across tense muscles like the brewing of an earthquake.

He can see clear through her epicenter. The heart has always been such a vulnerable spot.

"The only person who will lose their Miraculous will be you," Ladybug promises, her quiet voice rigid in its savagery.

Her words are a closing, but his champion takes them as an opening. In a blink, the stingers at the tips of her fingers arrow for the exposed skin of Ladybug's cheeks. Surprise is what allows a faint line of red to trail in their wake, a tally mark of success that smiles even as Ladybug recoils sharply back.

The scratch isn't deep enough for the paralytic to work quickly, but Hawkmoth's champion follows the jerk of Ladybug's head to reach for her earrings regardless. Her stingers scrape dangerously close to Ladybug's earlobe for a tantalizing second. So close yet so far.

Quicker than lightning, Ladybug ducks and slides back around to come close again. Her hands snap out and cuff his champion's wrists.

"Oh dear, that looks like it might sting," his champion says as Ladybug takes a slow, unsteady step back. "Need a sedative? I have just the thing."

"In your dreams," Ladybug growls. Hawkmoth's vision shakes as she grabs the possessed item on his champion's person. "You won't ever win against me and Chat."

"And in the end, it'd still be the both of you together. The offer still stands… either for you or for him."

That is the last word he is able to impart before Ladybug breaks the corrupt artifact, captures the akuma swiftly in her yoyo, and purifies it. Nooroo's magic holds tenuously, stretching out long enough for Hawkmoth to glimpse Chat Noir arriving at the scene.

There is a brief exchange between Chat and Ladybug, and though he can't hear a word, he can read the steel that threads through Ladybug's spine, hardens the curl of her fists. She steps, almost unconsciously, right in between his former champion and Chat, blocking Chat from view.

The last thing Hawkmoth sees before the magic breaks are her eyes that cut over to him, hard as diamonds and narrowed in secrecy and promise.

The vision fades, and the butterflies slowly settle on the ground once more around him, luminous and still. The window blinks closed as Nooroo pops out of the brooch, exhausted. He flutters weakly away to another corner where his remaining blackberries wait for him. Hawkmoth watches him go, dispassionate and thoughtful.

Ladybug may have gained nothing other than a new level of contempt for him from this encounter, which would be a shame- he found her responses rather informative.

Chat Noir is the lesser problem of the two. The boy- he can only be a boy, with his cavalier mannerisms and reckless strategy of running headfirst into battle- follows Ladybug's lead and is enamoured with her. She is Chat's gaping hole in his armour, easy enough to exploit, easy enough to manipulate Chat's Miraculous away with.

The boy is simple enough to read. Ladybug, frustratingly less so.

Hawkmoth was taken aback when she strode forward straight up to his face in their first confrontation and captured every single one of his akuma with a singularly intense ferocity. Their fights following only prove that she will eventually thwart him again and again, even when he manages to turn Chat against her.

He thought her single minded in her drive, to the point of tunnel vision that excluded even Chat at times. He thought, and was proven wrong.

Her blue eyes, burning, light his vision.

For as strong as Ladybug is, her anger betrays her age. She is better than Chat at keeping her emotions under lock and key; but evidently, she cares, perhaps just as deeply for her partner as he does for her. It is even better that she zips it within herself so protectively. That sort of strength, Hawkmoth knows, can make for a brittle chrysalis.

His fingers dig into his palm, exerting enough pressure over the perfect face of his brooch to crack it if it were an ordinary piece of jewelry. Sometimes he believes the potency of his desperation fissures right into its heart.

Love. The greatest source of pleasure and pain.

He had taunted that his offer of a trade may have been more appropriate for Chat; but in actuality, Ladybug is his closest match.

Her wingbeats initiate creation; his, change. Their effects ripple outwards in waters that are the same but driven by different winds, creating clashing currents, a civil war.

In another life, she could've been him.

* * *

 **AN:** Fun fact: every time I read or wrote 'Nooroo', I kept seeing 'Nooooo'.

Sorry that this chapter took so long! I struggled a lot with many of these characters, and it was a slow and uncertain process of finding the right mindspace for each one. The next one should come a little quicker! I'm in my last couple weeks of working on my shot for my animation final too though, so I guess I'll see how well I can multi-task.

Apologies for any typos, I'm posting this in a bit of a rush so I can free my mind and hands for concentrating on this week's work.

As always, would love to know who you liked best!


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